Violet Horizons
by AdmiralCats
Summary: (Bad Company: Book 11) For Vasquez, suppressing the past is easy; don't think or talk about it, and everything will be fine. That changes when she starts carrying the burden of hiding Drake's problems from the rest of their unit, and the difficulty only increases when she discovers that patience with Drake among their comrades is running thin.
1. Chapter 1

Drake has his moments where he's so lost in his head that he's not paying attention to what's going on around him. I wasn't sure whether to laugh or sigh when he was knocked to the floor by the plane taking off. It's sweet that he wanted to check on Hicks, but he could've waited. Or just not stand and stare through the window for too long. Even Hudson knows not to be standing when a plane takes off.

Personally, I was glad we were leaving D.C. I'm not used to it, and I don't feel like I've accomplished anything. I wouldn't have even come along if it wasn't for Drake. I'm just . . . tired of being separated from him for long periods of time.

It's a strange thing that's been happening ever since a simple rescue mission to LV-400. Drake threatened to hit Bishop, and was sentenced to three weeks on an orbital hospital station. Those three weeks were hell, made even worse by a morning report we got that he'd been poisoned and nearly an inch away from death. After that, Hudson got poisoned, and then Drake decided to go to D.C. to check on him and make sure this doctor wasn't hurting him. That was another week where he was gone. Then, two weeks after he came back, the squadron was called to the Moon. Drake and Hudson couldn't go, and that trip, too, was nothing short of hell.

I refused to be thrown into back a position where I can't trust anyone, so I begged Apone to go with Drake and Hudson. It wasn't like I could do anything on base, anyway; I hurt my shoulder on the Moon. Not sure what hurts worse, though, my shoulder or the fact that I'm completely useless till it heals.

Drake sat next to me when the plane stabilized. The right side of his face was red from where it made contact with the rug. "Not the worst rug-burn I've ever had," he said before kissing my cheek. "You OK?"

"Why do you always ask that? All I've done is sit down in a fucking plane. You don't need to ask every time you see me," I replied.

"I like to stay updated, honey."

"It gets annoying sometimes. I told you not to fuss about my shoulder."

"I'm not fussing about your shoulder." Drake nuzzled my face. "Am I not allowed to be concerned in the slightest?"

"You can be concerned. You just can't be annoying." I rested my head on his shoulder, not looking forward to be stuck on this plane for the next fifteen hours.

* * *

It was ten-thirty in the morning when we finally landed in Australia. I followed Drake and Hudson out to the parking lot of the airport, where an albino doctor called Delhoun would be taking us home. I technically owe Delhoun something for keeping Drake alive, but I don't know him that well enough to say something. Drake says he's a nice guy, with a lot of quirks, and I'll take his word for it. Again, though, I'd prefer to get to know him before forming an opinion.

"Let's hope we all don't have to take another trip like that for a long time," Delhoun said as we piled in his car.

"You mean the long flight, right?" Hudson asked. "I'd love to go back to D.C. someday, man. I don't think I've eaten that good in years."

Delhoun glanced at Drake in the mirror. "Is that why you came to me for money? Hudson blew it on food?"

"No, it was the Metro," Drake replied. "Although, Hudson didn't help."

"Got a point, there. Washington's not cheap." Delhoun switched his red gaze to me. "What'd you think, Vasquez?"

I looked down at my lap, struggling to find something to say that wouldn't make everyone think I was upset. "It was big."

"Not someplace you'd like to try again?"

I shook my head. "Not for awhile."

"At least you had Drake as a tour guide."

"I'm not that experienced," Drake said, "but I did my best." His expression changed, like his thoughts smacked him in the back of the head. He looked at me through the corner of his eye. "Sorry."

"For what?" I asked.

"For not . . . getting you more comfortable."

"It's fine. I really don't care. It's not like we're going back any time soon." I recognized this as him doubting himself. Doubt isn't the worst thing he can do; he beats on himself pretty often, and it's sad. I know I should be helping him break that habit, but I feel powerless. Very, very powerless.

When we returned to base, I was a little surprised to see Hicks already there, sitting in the mess hall wearing a bathrobe. He was sweating a viscous silver fluid, and shivering. Not entirely sure why he was there instead of his private quarters. It's demoralizing to see the squad's corporal in such a sad state.

I guess I was the only person who felt that way. Drake and Hudson were going over and patting his shoulders and trying to comfort him. A nagging voice in my head was telling me to do the same. _Just shut the fuck up._ I carried my duffel bag into my bedroom, and closed the door behind me. Dropping the bag on the floor, I sat on the bed, sighing heavily. Coming home had such a bittersweet feeling; I was glad to be someplace familiar, but at the same time, I was still wearing a sling. Unconsciously, I cradled my useless left arm in my right, becoming aware of a dull ache. The muscles holding my shoulder together were throbbing a little, but the rest of my arm was starting to go numb after not doing anything for over fifteen hours. _Just take it off and gently massage your arm. No big deal._ I was starting to remove the sling when the door opened, and Drake walked in.

"What are you doing?" he asked, softly.

"My arm went numb."

He sat next to me, taking the sling off and trying to control the movement of my left arm. "You coulda said something, honey."

"I can do it myself, dammit. You're fussing again. Please stop."

Drake took a breath, loosening his grip on my arm. I rubbed it until I could move my hand again, and put the sling back on. He made eye contact with me, and looked like he was trying to smile, but failed.

"Don't you have to put your stuff away?" I said.

"I can't talk to you?"

I bit my lip, guilt punching me in the chest. "I just want to be alone right now. We just got home, and I'd like to enjoy my own shower and . . . just be alone, OK?"

"Does that mean we're not sleeping together tonight?"

"I'm sorry. We slept together last night. W-We'll do it tomorrow night."

"Aw, I was hoping to cuddle."

"Oh, go cuddle with Hicks. He looks like he needs it."

Drake smirked at my terrible joke before planting a kiss on my forehead. "Love you. Guess I'll see you at dinner." He left the room, closing the door on his way out.

It took a few minutes before I started to feel better. I really didn't regret telling Drake to leave; he of all people should know what it's like to want to be alone for a few hours. What followed was incredibly mundane; I went through my bag and found the painkillers I was given for my shoulder. Not needing them at the moment, I put them in the bathroom medicine cabinet, then took a quick shower. Afterwards, I carried the dirty clothes down to the laundry room, where Spunkmeyer was tossing the colors in one machine and the undergarments in another.

"Put you on duty?" I asked.

"Yeah. Well, you were supposed to be on duty this week, but Apone decided to let you go with Hicks for some reason," Spunkmeyer replied.

"It was for Hicks's well-being," I lied. "Besides, you can't use me for anything right now."

"Personally, being down one man is better than being down four. Do you have any idea how many missions we've had to transfer to other units because of Drake's shenanigans?"

"None of this is Drake's fault-"

"No, you know what? I don't want to hear anymore about Drake. Because of what happened on LV-400, and how he can't keep his Goddamn feelings in his pants, we're all stagnating. Our training is not paying off. Some of us who could've been promoted, could've gotten a nicer paycheck, are not getting that because of Drake. Hicks trying to defend him with this mental health stuff is slowly becoming bullshit. I get it; reliving horrible memories and being suicidal isn't good, but I don't want Drake's problems to be reflecting back on this entire unit."

I swallowed past a lump in my throat. Spunkmeyer was making a good point, and it was eerily similar to what I told Drake about how I was tired of him being sad because it was rubbing off on people around him. "I take it you're not the only one who feels this way?"

"Not at all, Vasquez. Ferro's not happy. Dietrich's not happy. Wierzbowski's quiet about it, but he's not happy. Frost complained to Apone about this. Crowe said he'll punch Drake if this happens again." Spunkmeyer slammed shut the washing machine. "I don't think Hudson will be much help, either."

"Oh, when has Hudson ever been helpful? Look, I'm not happy about this, either, but I don't think fighting with Drake is going to solve anything. Maybe . . . he'd appreciate it if you talked to him more, and stopped making him feel like an outcast."

"Do you not remember when you and him first came here? He isolated himself. Didn't want to talk, didn't want to socialize, just put on this big cloak that has 'Leave me the fuck alone' written all over it. He pushed all of us away."

"He let Hudson in. Things _have_ changed."

"I don't think so. I'm sorry. I really am. Hell, if Drake can just shove his issues down his throat for a few days, maybe I'll change my mind. If not, fuck it. I'll request a transfer. We all had a really good reputation throughout the USCM before the mission at LV-400. Now . . . we're tanking. There are inspectors calling more frequently. I've heard rumors about psychologists coming in. I've even heard Apone talk about giving Drake a full discharge if he can't get his shit together." Spunkmeyer shrugged. "If Drake's suffering, staying here probably isn't the best. No one wants to see him suffer, and no one wants it to drag everyone down."

* * *

I couldn't help but agree with Spunkmeyer. His frustration was tangible, and it was surprisingly given that he's not the type of person to become frustrated. At all. As a pilot, he pretty much has to be calm and level-headed and not easily ruffled.

The LV-400 mission was a little over two months ago. I think that's too much time for someone's frustration to build. I should know.

What do I tell Drake? Obviously, he needs to know that no one's happy with him. God, I can already picture his reaction; he'll go right back into his shell. He'll claim this is all his fault, and he'll continue to hate himself. I don't want to see him do that, only because . . . I just can't. I have to hide all of this. I have to hide Spunkmeyer's anger from Drake, and I have to hide Drake's problems from everyone else. If that's the way things will go, so be it. I've been able to keep the details of my past hidden from everyone. There's no reason why I can't hide more.

At the same time, someone has to know. I can't have a repeat of the three weeks Drake was gone and I bottled up my own problems to the point where I couldn't look anyone in the eye without feeling the urge to burst into tears.

Unfortunately, the only person I felt could be trusted with all this was our court jester.

I found Hudson leaving the armory with his pulse rifle, going to the outdoor range to practice shooting. To me, it felt weird, stupid, and even a little uncomfortable to be talking to Hudson without Drake around about non-military topics. I didn't trust him on day one. I didn't trust him for a long time. Everything just has to be out in the open with him. He's loud, obnoxious, and can't take anything non-military seriously. There's no way he's done half the things he brags about.

And somehow, Drake trusts him.

"We just get home and the first thing you do is go play on the range?" I asked.

"Hey, the thing in that office building made me realize how much I miss my own pulse rifle, man," Hudson replied. "Besides, it's not inspection day, so I didn't bother folding any of my clothes."

"Can I ask you to not be batshit irritating for a few minutes?"

"Uh-oh, what'd I do?"

"It has nothing to do with you." I followed him outside and waited for the door to close completely. "It's about Drake."

"You two having problems?"

"No." I glanced over my shoulder, hoping no one else was listening. "Turns out Spunkmeyer and some of the others really aren't happy with what's been going on. They feel like Drake's problems have been stagnating the unit as a whole."

"Like how?"

"People aren't getting promoted. We're not being sent on many missions. There are rumors that we're being looked at badly by the rest of the Corps. Plus, they don't like him in general because of his attitude and personality."

"I think that might be a bit of a stretch, people not liking him. He's important to the whole group, and . . . yeah, I can see how everything is making us look bad. It's not like we're completely unorganized or bad at our jobs. People're getting sick. Just getting in the wrong place at the wrong time, man."

"It just seems beyond coincidental that three of us have been poisoned by that flower in such a short timeframe."

"Hate to say it, but it's all coincidental. Me and Drake were complete accidents, and somebody else tried to kill Hicks. I don't wanna say 'it's something we gotta deal with,' but I guess that's the best thing to say. Not everything is one big fucking conspiracy or an evil plan by some nutty mastermind. Sometimes, bad shit happens. Ain't nothing we can do about it except push forward and learn from our mistakes." Hudson slid a magazine into his rifle. "And you thought I was stupid."

"Well, I certainly didn't expect that from you."

"Hey, I learned a thing or two when I was in high school. That came from my history teacher. Pretty laid-back woman. Almost makes me feel bad that I gave the seniors some tools to prank her at the end of the year. Wanna know what we did? She was a fan of the Minnesota Vikings, so her classroom had all sorts of memorabilia. Jerseys, helmets, pennants, cards, you name it. Well, we took all that down, and replaced it-piece by piece-with Green Bay Packers stuff!" Hudson laughed. "Good thing we came up with that plan early in the year, 'cause it took us forever to match each Vikings piece with a Packers piece."

I took a breath, an unsuspecting feeling of jealousy putting weight at the base of my chest.

"She wasn't too mad at us, but she made us take everything down, since we seemed to know where a shirt went or a helmet went, and put the original stuff back up." Hudson's expression slowly sobered. "Nice old lady. Actually helped me out when I said I wanted to leave town and go to Minneapolis. She stayed in contact with me the whole time I was in the process of moving, and through every fucking job I got and lost. When I said I was gonna enlist, she said, 'Go for it.'"

 _Are you done yet?_ I thought, rolling my eyes.

"After I got shipped out, that was it. Few years later, I went back home on leave, and . . . found out she'd passed away." Hudson swallowed hard, and tears were starting to glint in his eyes. "Never got to say good-bye, or even 'thanks for the help.'" He tried to wipe the tears from his eyes, and then noticed my stoic expression. "I'm sorry, Vasquez. That got . . . That personal real fast, man, and I'm sorry."

"It's fine." I felt bad for not being more attentive to his story, especially since he threw in that depressing curveball. "I just wish I had someone like that when I was in high school. Fuck, I never even finished high school."

"Yeah." Hudson glanced at me. "You were in juvie with Drake. What'd you do to get in?"

Now I felt like crying. "I don't . . . want to talk about it."

"Drake told me what he did."

"I don't care! He's him, and I'm me! I'm not telling you what I did! I'm not telling _anyone_ what I did! If you ask again, I'll take that gun from your hands and smack you over the head with it!"

"Hey, easy, man. I didn't press further." Hudson seemed to flinch a little. "Geez, it's OK. I wasn't gonna ask again."

"No. You brought it up, and that's bad enough." I turned to storm back inside. "Hope you don't shoot your eye out, dickhead!"

* * *

Again, I thought Hicks would be better off resting in his room, but he was sitting with the rest of us during dinner, looking very out of place in his bathrobe. That wasn't the half of it; he was paler than fresh snow, making the circles under his eyes look even darker. Silver sweat was running down his face in waves, and he looked like he was going to drop off to sleep at any moment. Whenever he reached across the table to get something, I could see goosebumps under the dark hair on his arms. He just looked sick, and he should be resting instead of making us feel bad for him.

"First time we've had dinner as a family in awhile," Apone said.

"They coulda served something better," Hudson mumbled.

"Oh, shut up," Frost said. "You and Drake and Vasquez got to eat out every night in Washington, right? You shouldn't be bitching."

"Kiss my ass," Hudson replied. "You'd be singing a different tune if you got to eat something other than bread and dry beef for a few days."

"No one wants to kiss your ass, bud," Drake added.

"Anyone who's had the misfortune of seeing Hudson naked don't wanna kiss his ass," Spunkmeyer muttered.

Drake snorted. "That was you when we were stationed off the coast of South Africa. You two had to share a bunk and a shower."

"Yeah. Hopefully, that doesn't happen again. Although-" Spunkmeyer looked at Drake, "I'd rather be stuck with Hudson than you."

My heart started pounding harder. _Please, don't start anything here._

Drake frowned, looking a little confused. "What?"

"You heard me. I don't know how anyone in this room can stand to be around you for more than five minutes at a time."

Hicks slowly looked up from the table. "Watch it, Spunkmeyer," he rasped.

"Corporal, I know you're not feeling all that well, but I'd like to bring an issue to your attention-"

"Is it the same shit Frost told me three days ago?" Apone asked. "If it is, I heard it once. I don't need to hear it again."

"Yes, sir." With that, Spunkmeyer didn't say another word.

Drake glanced at me. "What'd I do?"

"Nothing," I said. "You did nothing." I couldn't tell him the truth. Not now, not ever. He's not going to make any sort of progress if he finds out; it'll send him right back to square one, and I don't want to deal with that.

* * *

 _Author's Note: I will be honest, when you write a character for a long time, it's difficult to transfer to a different one. Numerous times, I had to stop myself from "sounding" like Drake. He and Vasquez are both pretty cynical, but Drake goes off on mental tangents about everything. Vasquez keeps it short and to the point, and doesn't react to things the way Drake does.  
_

 _I wasn't all that sure about what to revolve the plot around when I first started this. I played around with some ideas, and I'm glad I found a solid one when I started writing the dialogue between Vasquez and Spunkmeyer in the laundry room. It seems fitting to reveal how the rest of the group feels about all the setbacks and lack of action, considering we've been following Drake's perspective for the last seven books, and he's never given much of a crap about how the others feel unless they've shown some degree of care towards him.  
_

 _Does the story need more details? Or does the lack of extraneous information feel appropriate given that the perspective is from a different character?_


	2. Chapter 2

I found myself tossing and turning all night, and quit trying to sleep around four-thirty in the morning. It took me a moment to remember I was back on base, and not in Washington. Rubbing my face, I got out of bed and put a T-shirt on.

Has it really only been one week since I got the sling? It feels like it's been far longer. I know I have to wear for three weeks, but that's three weeks too many. I don't want to be sidelined.

I felt a nervous twinge in my gut, remembering how Spunkmeyer was upset over Drake's issues sidelining the whole unit. Does he feel the same about me? Or does it depend on the circumstances? I wanted to ask if that was the case. After all, I was on the Moon mission. We were all a little whacked out after hypersleep. Anyone could've pushed that debris and hurt themselves.

A part of me wanted to apply that same logic to Drake, but everything leads back to his frustration with Bishop on the LV-400 mission. That's part of who he is. No one else could've gotten that upset with Bishop over prior knowledge of the planet and what lives on it. Most of us simply do our jobs. Drake does his job, and grapples with his memories. So, no, that logic can't be applied here. I'll just assume that Spunkmeyer isn't mad at me.

What about Hicks and Hudson? Are they dragging us down? Highly doubt it, but it wouldn't hurt to know if Spunkmeyer felt this way about all of us, or just Drake.

* * *

Speaking of Hicks, he wasn't at the table during breakfast. Good. He's finally resting. Then again, when I saw him, he was in an even sadder shape than yesterday. Still pale, still sweating that slime-like silver stuff. Bishop later told us it really had nothing to do with the medication he was on-it was just a bug he caught.

"Delhoun did mention Hicks had a fever the day before we left," Drake said. "Hope he starts to feel better soon."

"He probably passed it around to all of us because he was sitting here yesterday," I replied.

"Maybe. I think it looks bad because he's still flushing that poison out. Remember, Hudson looked awful when he was starting his pill."

"At least Hicks isn't losing his shit and jumping on people."

Hudson glanced at us. "I don't remember feeling _too_ bad, man. It was when I took an unexpected break that I really wasn't feeling good."

"'Unexpected?' You forgot your pills when we went to Delhoun's." Drake smirked. "You liked the horseradish treatment, though."

"Sure did, man. Maybe we should get some for Hicks."

Drake looked at me from the corner of his eye, then put his hand under the table to gently squeeze my right knee. "You OK? You look kinda distant."

"I'm fine. Just . . . thinking, that's all." I forced myself to smile. "How about we go out to the range and practice shooting? You haven't handled your smartgun in awhile."

"I was planning on going into Brisbane to see Delhoun."

"Why? You saw him yesterday. Leave him alone."

Drake sighed. "Oh, alright. Wait . . . you can't shoot, sweetheart. You're still hurt."

Without warning, I backhanded him hard. "I know I'm still hurt, dammit! You don't need to bring it up every single time you look at me!"

"What the hell is your problem, Vasquez?" Apone asked.

"Sarge, it's fine," Drake said. "It's . . . my fault, anyways. Shouldn't have brought it up."

"No, it's not fine. Spunkmeyer, you're off laundry duty. Vasquez, after chow, you get your ass down to the laundry room and get cracking."

I pursed my lips tightly while looking down at the table. Arguing wouldn't get me anywhere, not to mention I shouldn't have hit Drake in the first place. "I'm sorry," I whispered.

"Hey, I'm not mad," Drake replied. "Already told you it's my fault."

"It's not your fault."

"Yes, it is-"

"No, it's not. Please, stop wasting your breath feeling sorry for yourself."

Drake glared at me. "Alright, what the fuck is going on here? First, Spunkmeyer says something about how he'd rather bunk with Hudson than me, and now you're going against everything we talked about in Washington-"

"I'm not going against everything we talked about in Washington. We talked about having balance. You're not having balance by continuing to pity yourself and fuss over me-"

"Guys, knock it off," Hudson snapped. "Not helping yourselves by arguing, man. Plus, all you're doing is fueling Spunkmeyer's fire."

I've always known one of Hudson's biggest flaws is the inability to shut his mouth. Spunkmeyer looked at us when he heard his name, and focused his gaze on Hudson. "What're you talking about?"

"Nothing," Hudson replied.

"Who told you about what's going on?"

"Uh . . ." Hudson glanced at me, then Drake. "Uh . . ." He nervously looked around the mess hall. "Uh . . . Dietrich did."

Glancing up from her tray, Dietrich gave Hudson a confused look. "Told you what?"

"About . . . whatever-it-is Spunkmeyer's mad about."

"I haven't told you a damn thing."

"I still want to know what the problem is," Drake said over both of them.

"The problem is that your issues after LV-400 have been dragging us all down!" Spunkmeyer shouted. "Some of us coulda got promoted, but haven't because of you!"

"You think I have control over most of my problems?" Drake asked.

"Don't create yourself a pity party," Dietrich said.

"I'm not trying to create a pity party."

"Why don't you fucking worry 'bout yourself insteada what Drake does?" Hudson snapped.

"Because if Drake would just suck it up and push himself, we wouldn't be the laughingstock of the USCM!" Spunkmeyer yelled.

"Unless you ball-less knuckleheads got hemorrhoids, sit the fuck down!" Apone shouted. "Spunkmeyer, I already got this royal bullshit from Frost. I don't need to hear it again. Do any of you remember what Hicks said the week before the Moon mission? He said our biggest problem is communication. That's _exactly_ what I'm seeing here. I don't wanna repeat myself, or Hicks, but apparently, you people need armor-piercing rounds to get anything through your thick heads. This's got _nothing_ to do with Drake, so stop using him as a Goddamn scapegoat. The problem is the fact that you all think you're driven by motors instead of a brain. Bishop can probably handle emotions better than you!"

"Thank you, sir," Bishop said.

"It's almost like you all are afraid of yourselves. I'm not asking you to become crying pillows for one another, I'm not asking this to become a cutesy little place where you sit down and hold a teddy bear while you talk about who said something mean about you. You're human beings, and you need to start acting like them. You think Hicks wants to come in here and listen to you bitch and moan about each other? I don't think he does. Now, I want you all to think about a few things while you go about your miserable days. If we were called, right this minute, to perform a rescue or combat mission, would you keep up your petty grudges against each other? I would hope not. Some of you annoy the shit outta me, but I wouldn't leave you behind or let you get injured. That's not how things work around here. Your personal and professional lives shouldn't be bleeding into each other, but you should be using what you learn from either to strengthen the other, not wreck it. As much as I'd like to see some of you become lifers, I know many of you want to serve out your stint and go back to wherever you call home. Do you want to leave here feeling like you've accomplished something, or do you want leave here knowing that all you did was piss off everyone around you?"

The silence that followed after Apone's speech was extraordinarily heavy.

* * *

I was glad I had plenty of time to myself while I worked in the laundry room, although leaning over to take stuff out of the dryer didn't feel too good on my back after over an hour of doing so. It made me think about the future, a little. Laundry was something the military world has in common with the civilian world. If I can leave with Drake someday, I'll still have to do it. At least it'll be on a smaller scale. Just my clothes and his. And thank God I won't have to do Hudson's.

I grimaced while picking up a pair of Hudson's shorts, and tossing it into the washing machine. He definitely wore them three days in a row. I expected the T-shirt under them to be his as well, but I saw " _M. Drake_ " written on the tag. Without a second though, I sniffed the shirt. Drake once told me he likes to sniff my shirts whenever he's on laundry duty. "You still smell good, even when you sweat," he'd said.

He definitely stole some of the little soap bottles from the hotel in Washington. I smiled a little, taking this as a reminder that he's not depressed all the time. When he wants to be sexy or romantic or just sweet, he tries. He finds it entertaining to find ways to convey his love while keeping it hidden from everyone.

I took one more sniff before putting the shirt in the washing machine, and sighed disappointedly when I found one of Hudson's shirts underneath.

Before I could add the detergent and start the washer, Bishop came in carrying a covered basket. "These are Hicks's. They're not to be mixed with the others."

"Why?" I asked.

Bishop took the lid off to reveal a green T-shirt and shorts that were completely covered in silver gunk. "Put on gloves before you start a separate load. After that, whatever washer and dryer they touch will have to be sanitized. I'll take care of that."

"I think you should just burn it," I muttered.

"That'll get expensive after awhile," Bishop replied. "We can't keep burning Hicks's belongings."

"Well, hopefully he doesn't sneeze and puke this stuff all over the base. Is it really that hazardous?"

Bishop nodded. "Tell you what, I'll deal with Hicks's clothing."

"Sure." I picked up a basket of freshly-dried clothes. "Thanks. I hate doing this anyway." I headed down the hall, stopping first at Spunkmeyer's room. Frankly, I didn't want to talk to him, but I wanted to keep up the guise that I had no input on his feud with Drake. I entered the room and heard the toilet flushing, so I sighed and simply got to work going through the basket to take out everything with Spunkmeyer's name on it.

When he came out of the bathroom, Spunkmeyer glanced over my shoulder to see what I was doing, and said, "What do you think about Apone's speech?"

"What am I supposed to think?" I asked. "There was nothing he said anyone could disagree with. Unless you're hellbent on making Drake pay for holding us back."

"I think I told you that I think Drake should leave if he's suffering. Now, I don't know if he's suffering. I don't know if this is just his personality. Hey, moody people exist."

"Let's go back to what Apone said; he said that we're terrible at communicating with one another. Why don't you fix that by going up to Drake and talking to him? It's not like he's completely closed off from conversation. If you actually make an effort with him, he's not bad."

"Ah." Spunkmeyer folded his arms over his chest. "You sure you and him aren't together?"

"We're not together," I said. "Just take my word for it when I say you will get somewhere with Drake if you talk to him. If he can get along with Hudson, there's no reason why he won't get along with you."

"Fine. If this doesn't go well, you'll be the first to know."

* * *

As far as I know, Spunkmeyer didn't try talking to Drake at all during the rest of the day. That was fine; it meant Drake wasn't moody at lights-out. He hugged me close when I climbed into bed, and gave me a kiss on the cheek. "Thanks for the fresh laundry, baby."

"You're welcome." I set my bandana on the nightstand, on top of the necklace of hare bones he got during the trip to D.C. "Does that mean you'll trust me whenever we get our own place and have to do our own laundry?"

"Of course I will. Not like I'll be doing the laundry anyway."

"So, if I'm doing that, are you taking out the garbage?"

"Sure. I'll do that."

"And while I do the dusting, are you mowing the lawn?"

"What if we get a place where we don't have to worry about a lawn?"

"Then you're doing the vacuuming."

"Sounds fair. I don't want to have no responsibilities at all. I'll get bored, and that'll lead to me . . . wandering around my head, and digging up things I don't want to think about, and blah, blah, blah, you know the drill." Drake sighed. "Honey, I'm . . . I'm sorry about this morning. Really, it wasn't smart of me to bring up your shoulder and it just led to a big blowup and-"

"Apology accepted. Don't think about it anymore."

"Well . . . can we talk about what Apone said?"

"Why?"

"I feel like a lot of what he said was pointed at me."

"It wasn't. It was pointed at Spunkmeyer."

Drake was quiet for a moment, just laying there, breathing and thinking. "I think it's true that I'm dragging everyone down. If I hadn't . . . God, where do I start? Do I start with what I did to get in prison, or what happened on LV-400?"

I sighed. "How about starting with admitting that none of this is your fault? Spunkmeyer and the others are frustrated over something they can't control. I get why they're upset, but, again, it's something that none of us having control over. Apone and Hicks are right; our communication _sucks!_ You and Spunkmeyer need to sit down and talk. I refuse to deal with you two being angry about stupid shit."

"OK, take it easy, sweetheart, I'll . . . I'll talk to him in the morning. See? That wasn't so hard, was it? I don't want to see you getting mad over this, either." Drake kissed my forehead. "Now that's out of the way, let's talk about stuff on your mind."

"You _promise_ that you'll talk to Spunkmeyer tomorrow?"

"Cross my heart."

"Fine. Sorry, I don't know what I want to talk about right now."

"That's OK. I won't press you to talk about anything you don't want to." Drake pulled me a little closer.

I thought back to when I was working in the laundry room, and said, "Can I tell you a little secret? You know how you said that you like to sniff my shirts before tossing them in the wash? Well, I sniffed one of your shirts today."

Drake smirked. "I thought you said stuff like that is weird."

"Every couple has their quirks."

"Should we do that even after we leave?"

"If you want to. Hey, you said you were never going to do anymore laundry when we leave."

"Well, I changed my mind."

"Yeah. We'll see how long that holds up."

* * *

I forced myself to get up around five in the morning, knowing I didn't have a lot of time before everyone else woke up. After pulling on a pair of socks, I grabbed my bandana and gave a still-sleeping Drake a kiss on the cheek before leaving the room.

As I changed clothes in my own room, I heard someone slowly shuffling down the hallway. It didn't take long to figure out it was Hicks, probably wandering around because he was suffering from feverish delusions. Again, it was sad to think that only a few weeks ago, he was in great shape and on top of things. Now? He can't take a short walk without losing his breath and having a bout of nasty wet coughing.

However, I should give him credit for still caring. He knocked on my door. "Everybody up! Come on, I want everyone up . . . outta bed . . . down in the mess hall."

It took awhile before he moved on to the next room. It normally takes less than two minutes for someone to come around and wake us all up. Today, it took Hicks about ten minutes.

Everyone was a little confused. We stood outside our doors, adjusting T-shirts and tags and whatnot, wondering what was going on.

"I said, in the mess hall, dammit," Hicks added, without looking at any of us. "You're making my headache worse."

"You're definitely a ray of sunshine today, man," Hudson said as he followed everyone to the mess hall.

It's really rare to see Hicks cranky. I guess he caught wind of what happened yesterday, so he was planning on giving us a piece of his mind. I only hope that despite his condition, he'll be taken seriously.

* * *

 _Question: If you were a Marine in this unit, would you feel more inclined to agree with Drake, or Spunkmeyer?_

 _Author's Note: At this point, I'm picturing poor Hicks as looking like some reanimated corpse. Who doesn't look like that when they're ill?  
_

 _I'm enjoying working on this story a lot more than I thought I would. At first, I thought I'd be having difficulty because I've been writing Drake for so long, but writing Vasquez is coming to me surprisingly easy. It definitely doesn't mean I'll be quitting Drake, because there are more adventures to come from him. I don't want to tease anything because it's going to be awhile before it'll be posted, but it'll be similar to the overarching plot of "Blue Moon" where Drake's relationship with Hudson was developed. The next story will focus on Drake's relationship with Hicks._


	3. Chapter 3

As we all sat down in the mess hall, Hicks got to the front of the table, clutching his robe closed. He glared at all of us with bloodshot, watery eyes before slamming his fist on the table. "How long ago did I say that our communication sucks?"

"About three weeks, sir," Drake said.

"I was asking as a rhetorical question, but thank you." Hicks grabbed a napkin to cough into. "I know we weren't all together for those three weeks, but I really don't give a damn. We're home now, and we need to start working on shit like this. You all have spent way too much time badmouthing each other. In fact, I wonder how we can even function as a unit considering you all seem to hate each other. Honestly, I don't want you all to like each other, but I want you to actually do what you're told, and start managing your problems like adults. That should not be difficult. I know for some of you, it is difficult, and that's why I'm doing the best I can to help you. I already know Apone said this to you yesterday, and I certainly don't want to repeat anything, either, but I'm sick and tired of this bullshit. We all have parts of our personalities that are annoying and unpleasant. Under normal circumstances, I can't see half of you getting along with anyone else here if we were a group of civvies. But, we're not civvies, and we're stuck with each other until you get your discharge." He glanced around at us again, breathing somewhat heavily. "Now, I want all of you to leave. Except Drake and Spunkmeyer. You two are coming with me."

* * *

I didn't see Drake, Spunkmeyer, or Hicks during breakfast, and figured they were still talking. Poor Drake. I can't imagine what's running through that discombobulated head of his.

"Y'know, I wish they'd give us real toast someday," Hudson mumbled with his mouth full. "How hard is it to make toast, man?"

"Considering you're asking for it, I don't think they'll make it," I replied.

"This isn't even good bread on its own. It's fucking whole wheat bread. I don't care that it's better for my Goddamn colon. My colon's fine."

"Can you complain about anything else?"

"This orange juice is really fucking pulpy-"

"Something other than food."

"I'm sorry, man, I don't wanna go through the day on a disappointed stomach."

"Yeah, you're getting three meals a day, seven days a week. Your stomach should be really disappointed."

"You seem annoyed, Vasquez."

"Why shouldn't I be annoyed? I . . . I feel like I'm not doing something right. The last two days have been back-and-forth battles between squad members. I'm not the most friendly person, but I don't want to see us fighting all the time."

"Honestly, I've always thought you were more antisocial than Drake. You just don't make it obvious."

I nodded. "Does it make me a bad person? A bad Marine, even?"

"Fuck no. You're not a bad person, and you're definitely not a bad Marine. Hey, I think . . . I think people would look up to you if they really knew who you were."

"No, they wouldn't. They wouldn't look up to me at all. I don't want people to look up to me."

"Why not?"

I figured, fuck it, at one point or another, Hudson's going to figure out my past. And honestly, I'd rather have him know because I don't know if another long separation from Drake is around the corner. A part of me is tired of keeping stuff hidden, because every time the going gets rough and I feel stuck, everything threatens to boil to the surface. I start to feel helpless, and alone, and the last thing I want to do is wind up like Drake, suffering the horrid disease that is depression. I don't think our relationship would flourish if we're both suffering. We'll never be able to do the things we want to do. We want to be able to take pictures together, and we want to have genuine smiles in them. We want to go places and have fun together. We want to do the things that normal, civilian couples do. How many different ways are there to say "we want to be happy?"

After breakfast, I led Hudson to a secluded hallway near the laundry room, and sat on the floor. "Alright. I don't want people to look up to me, because if they saw what was in my past, they would see that I'm a quitter and that I'm selfish. I only care about what benefits me, and no one else, even if I'm part of a team. I'm part of a team because it has something that benefits me, therefore I'm a fraud."

Hudson folded his arms over his chest, and sat with his boots pressed up against the wall. "Not seeing how that makes any sense."

"I was active when I was in high school. I worked hard, and I wanted to have something to my name that said I had talent, that said I was worth something. Sports. I played lacrosse, volleyball, tennis, even tried cross-country running. I was dedicated, and when I made varsity lacrosse, I dropped everything else in order to stay focused on it. I wanted to be the best, I wanted to be the star of the team, you get the idea. Well, I wasn't the star of the team. I worked the hardest, but . . . if you want recognition, you have to do other things, and that wasn't me. How the fuck are you bettering your game by giving fake smiles at the concession stand during the football nights? How the fuck are you bettering your game by walking around the building, wearing a fake smile and selling chocolate bars for three dollars?"

"Was it for fundraising?"

"That's not the point. I'm talking about the lacrosse game itself, and how you play and perform. Being out on the field and beating the crap out of the other team is what I loved about it. The comradery on a high school sports team . . . just isn't the same as the comradery that a military unit has. When the day's done, no one cares, unless you're the star of the team. When you're the star of the team, you're popular, and you have friends, and you go do stuff with them. Not me. I went home, worked on my assignments, and did whatever chores needed to be done around the house. I played for a little over three years, and then quit. I quit because I was burned out. I quit because no matter how fucking hard I worked, the people who put in less effort were getting the recognition that I wanted and deserved. When I brought it up with the coach, she told me that if I really wanted recognition, I should start being more involved, and stop acting like lacrosse is a one-man sport. I threw down my helmet and said, 'Fine. I quit.'" I felt my cheeks flush warm, and tears slowly rolled down them. "Do you have any idea how hard that was?"

Hudson glanced at the floor, then back at me. "I guess . . . I dunno, from what I've experienced over the years, I guess it was best for your mental health. What woulda happened if you continued? You'd probably feel worse and worse 'bout yourself. You'd probably start to think you're not worthy of any kinda recognition."

"What's worse is what happened after. Some people took advantage of how I felt, and tried to make me feel like I was somebody by taking me to a party. I thought, what's the big deal? I thought I could be responsible, but . . . I drank to impress them, and I ended up . . . killing someone." I covered my face. "God, I remember those photographs clear as day . . . I can't stop seeing that . . . that girl's mangled, bloody head." I sobbed, and rested my forehead on my knees. "Every detail . . . I see it all the time in my nightmares. Blood, bone, brains, and that . . . eyeball. That exposed eyeball."

Hudson moved to my side so he could put his arm around me.

"I beat the shit out of her with a chair leg!" I wailed.

There were no sounds aside from me crying. Hudson waited patiently for me to calm down before saying anything. He didn't offer a smile, or a laugh, or anything stupid, which greatly surprised me. "You're sorry for what you did. I think that's what matters most."

There was definitely a lot more I could've told Hudson. I could've told him about how no one I met in prison (aside from Drake) seemed sorry for what they'd done. I could've told him that being taken advantage of was one reason I'm very closed off. I could've told him that I was nervous around alcohol until Drake got me more comfortable, and convinced me I really was in control, that I'm an adult now and I know how to moderate myself. I could've told him that I had wanted to tell him about my relationship with Drake in the past.

But, I felt like I had made myself emotionally vulnerable enough. I didn't want to dig myself into a deeper hole. I didn't want to overwhelm Hudson with my issues. Surely, he's got issues of his own, and he's probably burdened with Drake's mental sewage as well.

"Despite all that happened, I still think you're a good person, and an even better Marine," Hudson said. "Maybe you're not done overcoming your hardships, but you're getting there. You're not giving up, and . . . you're still learning." He shrugged. "Wish I had something better to say. I feel like you're easier to convince of things like that compared to Drake."

"Got that right." I took a breath. "Hudson . . . thanks for listening, and . . . I'm sorry for every single name under the sun I've called you."

"Hey, don't worry about that. We're doing the things Hicks wanted us to do, and we're also doing things that we shoulda done a long time ago." Hudson stood up. "Plus, it'd probably be better for Drake if we got along, somewhat."

"Yeah. That makes sense. I'm not making any promises, though; if you get annoying, we're going right back to square one."

"Well, then I guess we'll have to promise not to make promises for each other."

"Alright. That's a promise I can keep."

* * *

I saw Spunkmeyer leave Hicks's room, and Drake didn't follow. As I was about to see what was going on, Spunkmeyer said, "Drake wants to talk to Hicks alone."

I nodded, turning to face Spunkmeyer. "What else?"

It was clear he was no longer frustrated with Drake. The typical calmness you expect from a pilot had finally returned, but I noticed it was blended with a much heavier emotion. "You know . . . one thing I'd never accuse Drake of is being a liar. He . . . opened up a little about what's going on, and . . . just, a lot of stuff I didn't know, didn't care to know at first."

"Like what?"

"Nightmares. Regrets. Flashbacks. I knew he . . ." Spunkmeyer bit his tongue, and shook his head. "No, I just didn't care to know. I should've cared."

"Seriously? Don't feel that way. You have your own life and your own issues. You wanna give two shits about Drake? Go right ahead. Try not to let it overwhelm you. I've known him for a few years, and believe me, it can get overwhelming. It takes patience to deal with his problems." I felt like that was all I could say without delving into the fact that Drake was worried about having post-traumatic stress disorder, unless that was already brought up during their private conversation with Hicks.

"Well, I don't want to treat him any differently-"

"Then don't. He doesn't want to be treated differently. It's not that hard."

I finally saw Drake over an hour later, when I was tossing everyone's undergarments in the washing machines. He closed the door behind him, and said, "I talked to Spunkmeyer."

"I know. He seems very sorry about what happened."

"We both are, but I think it's because we felt sorry for Hicks. He shouldn't be worrying about all this right now. He's sicker than a dog."

"Do you think he should go to sick bay, or a hospital?"

"No. Bishop was talking to Hornby, again, and said that the best thing to do is give him some antibiotics and keep him warm, as well as keep up on the silver flower medicine. That's it." Drake leaned against the wall with his hands behind his back. "I told Spunkmeyer about what we did in D.C., and he said, 'Well, if you'd told me you were actually doing stuff up there, maybe I wouldn't have gotten so frustrated.'" Drake weakly smiled. "I said, 'You know what? If you ever want to go into Brisbane and talk over a drink or something, I'm up for it.' He told me he'd think about it."

"At least he doesn't hate you."

"Yeah, I'm not worried about Spunkmeyer. Dietrich's a different story; if she's got nothing to do, she thinks making fun of my face is a good way to keep herself occupied."

I rolled my eyes. "I happen to like your face."

"I would hope so. You fell in love with me, after all."

"True. Did I get more than I bargained for? Yep, but no matter how many times you frustrate and annoy me, you're the best friend I could ever have."

"You can be a pain in the ass, too, but you're also my best friend."

"Yeah, yeah, stop it. You're gonna make me blush." I glanced at him. "You better go. I have to finish the stupid laundry."

Drake was about to leave when he noticed me picking up a pair of filthy socks. "Hudson's?"

I sighed. "Hudson's. He think he saves us time by wearing the same clothes two or three days in row, but he's making us use extra detergent."

"I'll go tell him that."

I was starting to think that maybe Hudson was right when he said that I'm more closed off than Drake, and it made me wonder if I made the right choice in telling Hudson about my past. I hope it was the right choice. I know I can trust him if I'm ever away from Drake again, but that doesn't mean I want to. I've seen people have meltdowns around here, and I don't want to be next to suffer.

If I want people to look up to me, I have to keep up this look that my past doesn't negatively effect me anymore, even if it really, really hurts.

* * *

 _Question: How do you think this situation looks from Hudson's perspective? Is he secretly overwhelmed by being the "secret-keeper" of the group?_

 _Author's Note: I think I could've done better with this, and it definitely would've come out better if I wasn't working with limited time. I might go back to this in there future, but I know I'm going to work on the next entry in Drake's story when I return. More importantly, I'd like to thank everyone who's been reading and enjoying this series since I first posted "Boreal Nightmare" back in February. I'll keep your wonderful comments in mind as I travel, and I'll do my best to not let you down when I return in November. Happy reading - Cat._


End file.
